Berlin
by akaruy
Summary: Oneshot about Berlin.


So here he was again. Berlin. Cold, wet, grey, somewhat gruff and very little like the capitals of the famous neighbors. The fine rain drops in the stiff cold wind hit his face like needles. Statistics said it rained more often here than in London. The difference was just that the rain in London was famous, and the rain here was unpleasing.

He was standing close to the Museumsinsel at the river Spree, a place he had always liked. A couple of decades ago there had been the castle nearby, and the boulevard that went past the Humboldt University had been pretty and populated. When he closed his eyes he could still feel the ground shaking under the horses' hooves, see the men walking in their suits complete with stiff hats, making them look like any English gentleman, and the women with the intricate dresses and careful hairdos, talking about the latest fashion from Paris. However, those times were long gone. Today's Berlin didn't strive to become like those cities anymore, maybe it didn't strive for anything. It just worked as a living space for many people. Those cheap and sinfully ugly buildings from after the war mixed with American-style buildings that just didn't seem to fit in here, scars from wartime visible here and there, patched up quickly. There were some corners where one could still find the old times, however. Places where the buildings from a hundred years ago and more had been restored and loomed over the narrow street with their delicate design. The _flair_ had escaped the most part of the city though. "Berliner Luft" still meant a free way of living, but the interpretation of that had changed. What once had been a necessity had become a trait.

They had never had as much money as the – then – big neighbors. The kings and emperors really had tried to make an effort, but the castles turned out less delicately, less formidable than those in France. There had been so many artists, but they never quite reached what others did in Italy. At least it didn't feel that way. Just take the Brandenburger Tor, Berlin's variation of the Arc de Triomphe. It was a gate, a big one. With a statue on top, and that was it. Here, everything had to be practical. Why? Well, if you're in the middle of everything with everyone invading everywhere when you're not looking, everyone travelling through and no homogeneity inside, you need to make the practical choices. He always had had to make them, and no one had liked him for it. But it had worked. He had been around when the German countries had been so many and so small that merchants that were travelling through them sometimes had to change their money three times _a__day_. He had been there when Berlin was founded as a small village on the river, a great place to rest and trade, with bears and wolves in the deep forests around it. The bears were long gone, the name remained.

In the end all those small kingdoms, engaged in endless quarrels, became one and that was because of him but then – way too fast – he was forgotten and the new country rose as _the_ wealthy big neighbor right in the middle of Europe. Now it was over seventy years peace, an incredibly long time, and while the country had gained so much, the once alert eagle had become what was commonly mocked as "fat chicken". Not very flattering.

He breathed in the cold autumn air and looked at his grey city, that he loved like only someone who was born and raised here could love it. Berlin's affectionate nickname "Germany's biggest construction site" described the situation quite well. This was not a city to fall in love with, and so all the inhabitants that came from somewhere else would always complain about the size – too big, too small- , the traffic – too much, too loud-, the people – horrible, so many, and the _impertinence_!-, the buildings – too new, too old, too modern, too Sovjet Union-, the nature – too many trees, too little grass, too many parks, too little space -, basically everything. Why they didn't stay in their homes? Because Berlin was and always had been the gateway to the rest of the world. A restless place to sense what could have been possible and what had failed. And over everything, this feeling of deep tragedy, for which everyone constantly was trying to make up for.

He had really tried, but his means had been few. He still couldn't decide if he had failed or if it just felt like he had failed. Well, he would hang around for a while longer, and maybe one day the "fat chicken" would realize there was nothing left to make up for.

He had heard that recently wolves had returned to the forests of Brandenburg.


End file.
